Chapter 2 Grant #2
Her submissive nature must respond to the tone of my voice, because she doesn’t argue anymore. And when a second waiter brings over the wine, she accepts her glass with a polite, “thank you.”
“So tell me about this client,” I say. “Why are they being so disagreeable?”
“They’re my least favorite kind of collectors,” she says before taking a sip of her wine. “They have no idea what they actually like, they only want to make sure they’re outshining their friends and neighbors.”
I nod. “That’s pretty common with rich assholes. More money than taste.”
Her eyes have a teasing glint. “You say that like you’re not one of the richest men in this city.”
“Oh, I’m an asshole, too, sweetheart,” I tell her.
“But unlike them I have excellent taste.” I allow my eyes to travel down from her face, taking in the swell of her breasts beneath that leather bustier, making it very clear that she’s the perfect example of my very good taste.
When I look back up, she’s blushing again.
“What kind of art do they have you looking for?” I ask.
“Oh, they’re not really working with me,” she says quickly. “Gemma runs the show. I doubt they even know my name.” Her laugh is self-deprecating. “Why would they, right? No one pays attention to the mousey assistant.”
I narrow my eyes. “There are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t even know where to start,” I mutter. “First, mousey is the last word I’d use to describe you. Second, you work your ass off for that gallery. Please don’t talk like you’re inconsequential.”
Her shoulders go rigid and she looks down. She looks upset, and I don’t like it at all. Sure, she’d been annoyed with me when I’d bullied her into sharing a meal, but this seems different. She doesn’t look annoyed, or mad. She just looks…small. Unsure of herself.
“Hey.” I force my tone several shades softer as I reach across the table to take her hand. “What’s wrong?”
When she looks up, there’s a sheen to her eyes that has my stomach clenching. Is she going to cry? Fuck, what the hell did I say to upset her so much?
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I just…it’s the kind of thing my ex would say. He always belittled me. I used to volunteer at the art museum and he acted like it was so…inconsequential. A silly, pointless way to spend my time.”
A flush of hot anger zaps through me. She rarely mentions her ex in front of me. Hell, she rarely mentions her life outside of these walls at all.
I can count on one hand the things I know about Kensie’s real life. Her divorce was finalized six months ago. She’s been working at an art gallery ever since. She has an apartment in North Charlotte. And her ex-husband was an asshole.
Not that anyone has ever given me any details about the fucker.
About three months ago, a close friend here at Wyld approached me.
Jane is the most sought after—and frankly the most terrifying—Domme in the eastern U.S.
When she’s not whipping submissives into shape at Wyld she works as a top notch (and equally terrifying) personal investigator.
Her rich clients pay her a mint to dig up ammunition on their spouses and business rivals.
But Jane also does pro-bono work for a female divorce attorney in the city. She tells me that she takes great pleasure in unearthing dirt on abusive prick husbands in order to help the wife’s case.
And Jane worked on Kensie’s divorce case. Meaning it’s a safe bet to assume her husband put her through some shit.
Jane took a liking to Kensie right away. She refused to share the details with me, but at some point in the months after the divorce, Jane suggested Kensie join her at the club. And that’s where I came in.
“She needs someone to help her figure out what she likes,” Jane had told me all those weeks ago.
“So why aren’t you volunteering?” I asked. Jane giving up a gorgeous sub was unheard of.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m far too intimidating for a girl like that.”
“Are you saying I’m not intimidating?” I was pretty insulted, to be honest. I might not have Jane’s reputation, but I’ve been tying up submissives for longer than she has.
“You’re very intimidating,” she says with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “But for reasons I can’t possibly understand, this woman prefers dick.”
“I’m honored you thought of me,” I muttered.
“Listen, Kensie is clearly a submissive, but she has no idea what that means. She needs someone who is going to keep her safe and help her explore.”
It hadn’t actually taken much convincing, not once I saw a picture of her.
Kensie had captured me right away with that lush curtain of red hair and her mouthwatering curves.
But it had been the expression in her blue eyes that really gripped me.
She looked vulnerable, unsure. Clearly looking for someone to guide her.
And since there’s not much in the world I like better than guiding submissive women, I’d agreed. I figured it’d be a few months of helping a gorgeous woman with a shitty ex-husband get some experience before we both moved on.
I had no fucking clue what I was in for.
Before I can do more than silently rage at the shithead ex-husband for making Kensie feel that way about her job, she straightens her shoulders and faces me head on.
“It’s a habit I’m trying to break,” she says, voice stronger than I’ve heard since she joined me at this table.
“I’m working on ignoring the echoes of the things he used to say when they pop up. ”
“I’m glad,” I tell her, my throat feeling strangely tight. “You let me know if you need any reminders about how amazing you are.” I tilt my head. “Actually, fuck that. I’ll remind you either way.”
Her shy but clearly pleased smile makes me feel triumphant.
Before she can respond, the waiter appears with our meals and Kensie gives a little moan of pleasure at the mouth-watering scent of garlic and spices.
“I told you that you needed to eat,” I say, and she gives me a sassy little eye-roll that has my dominant nature rise up, eager to teach her a lesson with my palm.
We don’t talk for a few minutes as we both dig into our pasta. It’s every bit as delicious as I knew it would be, and we definitely worked up an appetite earlier. Eventually I ask her about the clients again and she starts talking about all the amazing art they’ve rejected so far.
That leads her to chatter about what she would choose if she had a similar budget, all the artists she’d give anything to buy from. It doesn’t take much prodding to keep her talking—in fact, she seems like a whole new person once she gets going about art.
She’s excited and confident, easily giving her opinions. It’s her expression that kills me, though. There’s usually something guarded about Kensie, even when we’re fucking like rabbits. The woman has walls so thick I’ve never been able to even begin to crack them.
But that reserve completely goes away when she’s talking about art. She’s happy and excited, her eyes bright and her smile easy. It’s fucking breathtaking.
Until my dumb ass goes and ruins it.
“You really know your stuff,” I say. “You know, I’ve actually been planning to do some collecting myself. My financial advisor is always telling me what a great investment it can be. Maybe you could help me out?”
Her eyes are teasing as she narrows them slightly. “So you just care about investment pieces? You don’t want me to, ya know, help you find something you might actually like?”
I grin. “I mean, sure. It’d be nice if I liked it. But just so you’re aware, I don’t know shit about art.”
She giggles softly. “I’m sure I could teach you a thing or two.”
Holy shit, Kensie is actually flirting with me. And we both have all our clothes on. It’s like a fucking miracle.
“So, what do you say?” I press. “I could come in this week and you could show me around the gallery? Then I could take you out to show my appreciation.” I lean in a little, wanting her to see all the desire in my expression. “It’d be nice to share a meal with you somewhere that isn’t the club.”
And just like that, every one of her walls goes snapping back into place. I can actually see it happening, the way her eyes dim, her expression flattening out, posture tensing.
Fuck.
“If you’re really interested in investing, I think my boss would be a better fit.” Her voice is polite and totally professional and I fucking hate the sound of it. What happened to the giggling, flirty girl I’d just spent the meal with?
“I don’t want to work with your boss,” I snap, my annoyance spiking. I’m irritated with myself, for pushing too hard, and annoyed with her for shutting me out. Mostly I’m pissed at that asshole ex of hers.
What the hell did he do to her to make her so guarded?
“Speaking of work,” she says in a false bright voice, completely ignoring my last statement. “I have to be up early tomorrow.” Before I can say a word she’s standing, gathering her purse. “Thank you so much for dinner, Grant. You’re right, I needed that.”
“Kensie—”
“I have quite a bit to do next week,” she presses on, not even looking at me. “But I’ll call you when I have a free night, okay?”
“Kensie.” But she ignores me completely, slipping her purse strap over her shoulder and striding off into the crowd.
I watch her go, stunned by the speed in which I fucked that up.
“Idiot,” I mutter, running my hands over my face.
I broke the cardinal rule of our relationship. Kensie is happy to give me control of her body, of her pleasure. But the rest of her? Her heart and mind and life outside of this club? All of those things are firmly off-limits.
And I’m not sure if that will ever change.